


Clovers

by chii



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[PostMovie, what-if fic] “Well, no,” the child says patiently, and Erik silently marvels at the fact that now it’s both Charles and small children that have that way of speaking to him, as if he’s very slow catching onto a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clovers

The Anders are a nice enough family-- he picks them out of the crowd just the same time as they do Charles, and he knows that what he was heading for can stand to wait a few moments. Their son, Daniel, is at his school, now, and as far as they’re aware, it’s much like a normal high-school, just more specialized. They remember the issues that Daniel had, but he seems much happier now, and Charles has eased any memories they had of exactly what kind of powers any of them had, replacing what he could so there wouldn’t be any sort of issue.

Daniel’s mother had doted on both of her children quite clearly when he’d visited to speak with them. Charles envies him for that, maybe, beaming at the little girl who comes running up to him, a fistful of green plants in her hand, her mother shaking her head as she follows after.

Mrs. Anders is a bit round-- cheeks constantly flushed, blonde hair crimped perfectly and pulled back, though her daughter, Beth, is clearly a handful, one sock down around her ankle, the other at her knee, still, and she presents the handful of clovers to him positively _delighted_.

“A fan of clovers, then?” Charles asks with a little wave at the older woman, bending in his chair to take a closer look at the plants in the girl’s tiny hand, laughing faintly when she nods furiously.

“Mmh! I’m looking for four-leaf clovers! Miss Rachel said they were good luck!”

It takes just the faintest little motion to pluck the knowledge out of her mind-- her teacher, then.

“Ah,” Charles answers, and offers a hand for her to dump them in, and together they go through them, while her mother watches, clearly amused. “Shall I let you in on a secret, Miss Beth?” he asks and has to stifle a laugh when her eyes go wide and she nods yet again. “Four leaf clovers are even more special than you realize-- they’re a mutation, among clovers themselves. The odds of finding them are one in around ten thousand-- about how many people are in the city you’re from, if I remember correctly. A rather groovy mutation, don’t you think? Four, _and_ good luck?”

She practically squeaks in delight, and from off to the side, he catches sight of Erik, stretching long legs out by the chessboard in the sunlight, just watching them.

 _A moment, my friend,_ he says quietly, and goes back to chatting with them, explaining he’s there to meet his friend sitting by himself at the table, explaining how Daniel is doing, until Mrs. Anders tugs her off with the promise of ice-cream, and Beth is promising to find him a four leaf clover for good luck.

\--

It’s a relief to see Erik there, legs crossed, surrounded by older men at their chairs on either sides of him. They had argued last time-- sharp and bitter and hissed over the chessboard, careful not to make a scene, but Charles was fairly sure that people had taken notice with the way they were clinking their chess pieces with far more force than necessary. When Erik had been the one to initiate the invitation this time, he hadn’t even considered the idea of saying no, with how long it had been since the last time. Erik’s not wearing the helmet ( for the first time in how long, Charles thinks, and then swallows the thought down when it becomes too depressing to ponder ) and he’s as neatly dressed as ever, sunglasses folded at his side.

It aches, for just a moment, to feel that same flash of something like guilt that he picks up from Erik as he sees him in the chair, though he cuts that thought off nearly as soon as he picks it up, shielding them a bit more-- Erik deserves his privacy, at least.

“It’s good to see you,” Charles offers finally, taking a handful of the chess pieces, starting to set them up, each quiet click of marble on marble as familiar as long nights spent in the cool library with a glass of scotch each.

They talk about whatever subjects they can bear to, through nearly four games, while people pass by, children screaming as they play tag not far away, and older men playing games together, no doubt having been there for hours. He’s content, at that moment, smiling quietly up at Erik as he murmurs checkmate, and they start setting their board up again.

 _This could be the norm_ , he wants to say, and instead asks how Raven is, relieved to hear the same answer as last time ( Well. She’s doing well. ) because he still cares for her, even on opposite sides of the world, opposite sides of beliefs, even. Everything around them is so utterly normal, birds singing, children playing, people laughing in the park, that Charles finally stops, and looks up, daring to say something past the idle chatter they’d been keeping up. “There’s always a place--”

“It’s your turn, Charles,” Erik says swiftly, because no, no, _absolutely not_. No, they are not having this conversation here, no, he is not letting Charles do this again. They’ve been over this time and time again, and the very last time had resulted in a full-blown argument that had left them not talking for a good while. No, he thinks. Not again.

There’s no small amount of relief when he finds Charles doesn’t argue the point, he simply picks up a rook and moves it, focusing on the chessboard instead.

After eight long games, the sun is starting to set, and people are gradually leaving for dinner, for home. Charles catches the faint presence of Mrs. Anders’ mind once more, and presses a hand to Erik’s to still him and ask for a moment, wheeling away to go speak to them again while her daughter trots off to the center of the park. She’s bought a few things-- a blanket, some sweets, things for Charles to bring back to her son, and he thanks her graciously, promising he’ll bring them to him, assuring her everything has gone well so far, giving her the briefest of overviews on what he’s learning.

\--

Erik forces himself not to jump when he feels the tap of small fingers on his arm, his own fingers already stretching towards the metal surrounding all of them, before he realizes there’s no threat. It’s just the girl he’d seen Charles with earlier-- and she’s holding a handful of--

“Clovers,” she says, and there’s the faintest lisp to her speech as she stands there and beams at him like she’s got gold in her hands, not waiting for him to react before she’s setting the huge handful in his lap, clasping dirty hands back behind her back and rocking on her small heels. “For Mister Xavier. The one on the top has _four!_ ”

He glances back at Charles, sees him still chatting, and realizes there’s no real way out of this, so he doesn’t cringe at the dirt on his pants, nor the clover just sitting on his knees, and raises an eyebrow at her. “For?” he asks, not quite sure why she’s handing him a bunch of soon to be dead plants, having assumed girls normally went for flowers and that sort.

“There’s special ones in there,” she explains as if it’s absolutely obvious, gesturing broadly with dirty hands, the lisp more prominent at her next word. “Mutations.”

Erik glances up at Charles abruptly, and realizes he’s being ignored, exhaling in annoyance. “I see. Not all of these have four, though.”

“Well, _no_ ,” the child says patiently, and Erik silently marvels at the fact that now it’s both Charles and small children that have that way of speaking to him, as if he’s very slow catching onto a joke. “But he said you needed bunches to find one, so I got him bunches, because mama and me have to go get me new shoes.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just stares blankly at the pile of plants in his lap, and then makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, endlessly grateful when the woman he supposes is her mother collects her again with a firm hand and a little laugh. Charles wheels over, too, raising his eyebrows at the clover, lips quirked.

“Ah. It seems you’ve been sitting here so long that you’ve started to sprout plants,” he teases, leaning forward, elbows on his lap, gesturing to him. “Mrs. Anders, my dear friend Erik. Erik, Mrs. Anders’ son is at my school.”

Erik bears the chit-chat for just a few moments, before Mrs. Anders makes her goodbyes, and Beth sweeps a quick curtsy that she calls she learned in dance class, as she’s led away by her mother, talking excitedly about heaven knows what. Charles, to his credit, doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just idly looks him over, smiling wider at the clovers. “I see she brought you a present. Was she telling you about how four-leaf clovers are good luck?”

“Indeed,” Erik sighs, and brushes them off into the grass under him, pushing himself to stand. Their games are over, and he’s found he’s all worn out when it comes to making smalltalk out here. The smile doesn’t fade, but Charles does sit back a little bit, blinking when the other man presses a small green plant into his hand as he gets ready to go, grabbing his glasses. “For luck, she’d said.”

He starts down the path back to the streets, out of the park, waiting for the familiar sensation of the metal wheelchair moving behind him, as Charles starts to follow him, silent.

“Do you hate her, too? For not being like us?” Charles asks softly when they’re further away and there’s no danger of anyone hearing them. He knows it’s unfair-- wants to take the words back as soon as they’re gone, but he doesn’t. He keeps up with Erik’s long strides, looking up at him a moment, until Erik stops, catching sight of Alex with a car, giving them a cautious look, wearing a black leather jacket that no doubt hides Hank’s latest contraption as a precaution.

Truth be told, he’s surprised that they let Charles do this at all, that they trusted Erik enough for it, but he doesn’t muse too long on it, instead focusing back on Charles. He leans in, squeezing his shoulder, knowing Charles would understand he got the reaction he perhaps didn’t know he wanted. It stung, and as he squeezes Charles’ shoulder, his voice is low. “No, but sometimes, my friend, I think it’s easier to think of hating you.”

Charles’ smile doesn’t waver-- he reaches up, curling one strong hand around Erik’s wrist, and inclines his head just a little bit, tone holding the smallest trace of resignation. “I know.”

Sunglasses on, Erik pulls his hand away and brushes his pants off once more. “Next Sunday, then,” he says, heading back to the chessboards, back to the street where Azazel would be waiting to bring him back home.


End file.
